May 14, 2009

A museum of history

I step into a museum, silent as a crypt. Archives of old men speak of glories of their blood and toils till into dust they were interred. Artifacts by great craftsman blare into living legends, men whose blood even now trembles in these veins. Legend slides into eternity, a dazzling star transfixed in orbit breathes again and again.
From the dust of archives I shovel a desire to unearth a silent pit, my roots entangled in its fragile connection. A specter emerges from the mirror of time, looking into its many reflections, like a cloud-burst revealing a rainbow. The images, smudged and opaque, glimmer like light through a blanket of clouds.

I walk away, with my illusions, a curious heart seeks to create and destroy
idols, over and over again.

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